


old wounds

by etotheswan



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etotheswan/pseuds/etotheswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurts your shoulder, the hard knock of the bricks against your scapula, but you hold in the groan and ride out the pain, because you’ve kissed before and you’ve killed before, but dammit, this is the first time a kiss has almost killed you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	old wounds

**Author's Note:**

> one-shot that literally has no use and i'm trash. sigh.

The first time you were shot, which thankfully was the last time, it bloody _hurt_ and it still bloody _hurts_ when the temperature drops or the barometer dips below a certain point. Your shoulder aches like it happened yesterday and all the balms and liniments and physical therapy never seem to work. It's something you've learned to live with and, truth be told, it's a reminder... A reminder of how fragile life is and how it doesn't matter how undercover you think you are, there's always the possibility of being _seen_.

Always trying to stay hidden is not necessarily how you saw yourself living life, but it's sort of fun and when you play your cards right, the thrill is just enough to make you forget how lonely you really are.

What's the saying? _You're not alone... Just lonely...?_ And for some ridiculous reason, when your shoulder aches and the snow falls in New York City, the ache radiates to your heart and your hands and it's all too much for you to handle.

You're strong and courageous and you're a fierce woman, but for the love of God... Sometimes it just all _hurts_.

So, sometimes you drink. And tonight? You drink with Angie. Life is short and she's just persistent enough to make you not hate her. It's most definitely a horrible idea, though because you're lonely and she's cute, and forgive you for being slightly attracted to someone of the same gender.

After all, isn't your whole stance about genders is that they are _equal_?

And dammit, her smile and that slight accent that you can't quite pinpoint (is she from the city or somewhere else entirely?) is actually quite endearing. Forget the fact that she wiggled herself into your life like a toothache in the middle of a candy bar.

"A Manhattan, please," you say to the bartender as the two of you sidle up to the bar that Angie picked on the complete opposite side of town, you in pair of trousers and a white blouse and her in that damn red dress you saw her in the other night and damn it all if you hadn’t given her a compliment, too.

"Bourbon? Really, English? I never pegged you as the bourbon type." Angie smiles and turns her head towards the bartender, who only slightly resembles Chief Dooley, but is as much a woman as the two of you. It makes you smile when the bartender raises her eyebrows at Angie and then slides a mug of beer and a shot of vodka across the bar top. "Awww, Helen, you know me so well."

"My favorite regular," the now named bartender smirks and delivers your drink next. "Can I get you anything else, sweetheart?"

You feel your cheeks fill with pink, her accent twisting the word _sweetheart_ in all the proper New York City ways, and you smile again. "No, but thank you, so much." You swivel on your barstool and glance at Angie as she tips the last of her shot of vodka into her mouth. She practically slams the shot glass on the wooden surface and then smacks her deep pink lips together. "Good?"

"Oh, Peg, you have no idea." Angie crosses her arms on the surface in front of her and then glances over her shoulder at you. "I can't believe you said you'd come out tonight," she says softly, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You must have really needed it.”

“I did,” you answer, your right index finger circling the rim of the tumbler. Picking up the glass and bringing it to your lips, you raise an eyebrow and nod your head. “I’ve not been to this bar.” Angie laughs. And it’s a wonderful sound, because it’s not forced at all. Not that it ever has been before, but now, now it’s just light and airy and, crikey, you could listen to her laugh for hours. “Did I say something to amuse you?”

“Peg,” Angie starts, swiveling her stool so she’s fully facing you, her hand wrapped around the handle of her mug of beer. “You know we’re in an all girls bar, right?”

You purse your lips and try your damndest not to laugh at this wonderful idiot in front of you, because _of course_ you’re in a lesbian bar. You’re not daft, nor are you slow, and little does she know, but your levels of deduction are quite superb. “I had no idea,” you say softly, leaning in closer to her before you finish with, “I wondered why we’re surrounded by lesbians.” And Angie laughs again, leans her head back and this time, you’re close enough that you don’t even try to hide the fact that you’re staring at the line of her neck, or the way her hair falls away from her face.

“You’re a riot, Peg,” Angie comments before she takes another long drink of her beer. “You’re okay with it, though?” When she asks the question, you’re taken back by the way her teeth brush her lips and then how she pulls her bottom lip in and worries it and _Jesus, Joseph and Mary.._.

“Yes, Angie, I’m quite alright with it.” You take a long drink from your beverage and relish in the burning sensation as it rushes down your throat. You find yourself wanting to down the entire thing and ask for another and another, but the last thing you need is to get pissed.

“How alright are you with it?”

 _Shite…_ Maybe you should get pissed. “Whatever do you mean, Angie?” And down the hatch goes the first drink. You raise two fingers in the air to get Helen’s attention and thankfully she sees you and is fixing you another Manhattan before you can even think about changing drinks.

“Well, I mean, I just,” Angie starts stammering all over herself and it’s cute and sweet and dammit, you need her to stop because now your face feels warm and your toes are tingling and you should have never drank that drink so fast. “You know what? Nevermind. I’m just happy you’re okay with this place.”

You take a long swallow from your freshly delivered drink. Then another. Then one more, before you press your lips together and hope your red lipstick still looks flawless. And even though you aren’t really expecting this from yourself, and really, had your brain not been nearly as fuzzy you probably would have stopped yourself, you reach over and place your hand, warm palm down, on her thigh, right above her knee. She looks down at your fingers, your red nails, and then follows your arm up to your face. She looks like she’s seen a ghost, so you squeeze ever so lightly. “You’re adorable,” you smile and wish you could get her reaction on film, because it’s classic. “And I’m more than alright with it.”

Angie lets out a sigh, you can smell the hint of hops on her breath, and there’s a slight chance she might lean in to kiss you when you hear a throat clear from behind you. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Angie groans as she leans to the left and looks over your shoulder. “Can’t ya see we’re busy here?” Her voice is laced with irritation and you find yourself fighting back a chuckle.

“Yeah, well, I was going to ask you if you’d like to dance,” comes the husky female voice to which you turn your head and glance over your shoulder.

“Excuse me?” You’re on your feet now and you’re looking square into this woman’s glassy stare. Yeah, she’s bigger than you, but you’re a little nervous and a lot drunk.

“Not you,” the woman says, looking you up and down. “Your friend here.”

 _Well…_ “Oh, okay…” You go to stand to the side. Can’t very well say no _for_ Angie now can you?

“Sorry, lady, but the Queen of England just ain’t my type.”

You hate to admit it, but you’re so taken back by what was _supposed_ to be an insult that you don’t even notice that Angie has leapt off her stool and is now standing between you and the crude woman.

“Look here, lady, she’s _my_ type, so why don’t you turn around and go try and dance with someone else, okay?”

“Angie,” you try to interject and she waves her hand at you, shushing you up immediately.

“Go on. Scram,” she says, waving her hands now at the woman. “Queen of England,” Angie mutters as she turns and looks at you. “Did you hear that? Queen of England??”

You smile at her, because this might be the first time since Steve has been gone that your heart still flutters and your hands still ache and your knees still get weak. “I heard it,” you whisper, still looking at her, still trying to figure out what in the bloody hell is going on between your shoulder blades that makes you feel like you could fly when you’re around her.

“Ain’t nobody talking to Peggy Carter like that while I’m around. _Nobody_.”

Angie beams and goes to sit back down, but you grab her hand and pull and pull and she’s following you but asking a million questions the entire time. It’s not until you’re headed out the backdoor of the bar, in the alley, down the steps, with the September air surrounding you that she finally stops talking. And when you find a clearing against the brick wall and look over at her, the way she smiles at you is enough to make your heart stop. She pushes you now and your back hits the red bricks of the building with a thud and her lips come crashing down onto yours. It hurts your shoulder, the hard knock of the bricks against your scapula, but you hold in the groan and ride out the pain, because you’ve kissed before and you’ve killed before, but dammit, this is the first time a kiss has almost killed you.

When her hands lace their way into your hair and you feel her body press against yours and her teeth bite down gently on your bottom lip. A chuckle escapes from your throat and she pulls from you, ducks her head and then looks back at you through the veil of her eyelashes. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Sometimes I get a little carried away.”

“Angie,” you say softly, place two fingers underneath her chin and tilt her face towards yours. “Have you not figured out by now that I’m -”

“Utterly attracted to me?”

You laugh at her attempt to mock you, accent and all. “Yes,” you answer, moving her hair behind her ear and leaning forward to place a kiss on her lips. “Let’s go back to the Griffith.”

“You know, Peg,” Angie starts as she turns, her fingers now intertwined with yours. “I had a feeling this might happen if I brought you here.”

“Care to explain yourself, Miss Martinelli?”

Angie smiles as the two of you emerge into the bar. “I know when an idiot fancies me… And I knew that idiot was you. I just didn’t know how to tell you the feeling was mutual.”

You feel the space between your shoulder blades tighten, the old gunshot wound relax, and your heartbeat quicken. Times like these are when you’re happy you’ve sworn off men. And even happier that you're not lonely.

 

 


End file.
